


Justice

by Jainya



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jainya/pseuds/Jainya
Summary: Jaina Proudmoore wasn't expecting an attack so soon after the Battle of Dazar'alor. But in this intrusion, she finds opportunity. The Horde forces encroaching on Kul Tiras are led by none other than Sylvanas Windrunner, who proves to be more than the newly appointed Lord Admiral bargained for.





	1. Prisoner of War

The stench of death was suffocating. Though not unfamiliar, the rotting flesh of both old and newly risen Forsaken amplified the smell tenfold. Jaina had long since retreated from the fog of plague that encroached over the coast, and yet her throat still burned as if she had swallowed flame. She mourned for those of her people she could not save from such a fate.

Jaina, admittedly, had not been expecting this invasion. The horde were still preoccupied rebuilding what was lost in Dazar’alor. She did not think they had the available resources for mounting an attack against Kul Tiras. She hated to be wrong. In the little time she had to prepare after Zandalari ships were spotted off the coast of Drustvar, Jaina had rallied the forces she could spare from Boralus, herself included. She knew magic was indispensable in dispersing the fog of undeath. Tidesages could help, but they were far more useful in the capitol, surrounded by their source of power. She refused to allow the Horde to taint any more of this land, or take any more Kul Tiran lives - and turn them into more of those monstrosities. She would end this here and now, and never again be underestimated.

Technically speaking, Jaina’s troops were outnumbered. But they had the advantage of home terrain, which, in a place like Kul Tiras, weighed more on a battle than numbers. Considering the extremely short notice, she had not had much time to prepare, but her plan was sound. SI:7 forces were stationed behind cover, striking from behind. Gnomes and dwarves attacked from above, and her navy soldiers took the brunt of battle, paying special attention to those carrying foul plaguebringers. So far casualties seemed to be at a minimum.

Satisfied with the current state of affairs, the Lord Admiral slipped away from any view of the battlefield, and teleported herself to the coast. From there she made out three ships, focused on the largest one's deck, and teleported once more. The Horde was overzealous, and she refused to let any of them forget their mistake. None of these mongrels would leave Kul Tiras again. They would waste away beneath the tide, or wash up on shore to be devoured by the wildlife.

Jaina Proudmoore found herself on the deck of a Forsaken ship, if the inlaid skulls and tanks of sickly green fluid were any indication. Deckhands stood still in shock and confusion at her arrival, and she wasted no time in skewering their bodies with ice. The attention of the crew was drawn; at least a dozen Forsaken soldiers turned all attention towards her, weapons at the ready. Jaina was undaunted. With practiced precision, missiles of frost formed around her and flew in different directions, knocking at least four enemies into the water below, where they would likely freeze to death. Those remaining charged. She was surrounded by steel and iron, but did not so much as flinch. She inhaled the scent of salt, and as she exhaled two water elementals appeared on either side of her. Something - either confusion or mockery - flashed across the soldiers’ yellowing faces. They always underestimated the power of water.

The elementals began thrashing, hurling partial bodies overboard. Jaina turned her attention to a figure emerging from the upper deck, the captain’s quarters most likely. This figure was thin, as all Forsaken, but armor gleamed in the clouded sunlight, modeling a lithe elven form. A dark ranger perhaps? A challenge, perhaps, but nothing she couldn’t handle. But, no, this was more than a dark ranger. Could it be...

Her question was answered before she could even finish the thought. Eyes shone like enchanted rubies behind a low hood, and beneath them, tear stains black as pitch. Jaina had to blink to be sure she wasn’t wrong, but sure enough, Sylvanas Windrunner strode out, eyes once soft now glowing with malevolent intensity as they stared down at her. They were smug, amused, but annoyed. “Lady Proudmoore herself has come to visit me? I’m honored.” Her tone mimicked a dirge.

“I believe I’m the host, and you are an unwelcome guest.”

“Am I? I thought Kul Tirans were more hospitable than this. Pity.”

Jaina tired of idle talk very quickly. Her hands bristled with arcane energy. “Kul Tiras,” she shouted, “is no place for the undead!” Bolts of energy collected in the palms of her hands, making the slightest crackling sound before flying directly towards their target.

Sylvanas rolled to the side with uncanny agility. Though she dodged two bolts, the final one struck the hand holding an arrow, which clattered against the thick wooden floor. Her teeth clenched but the warchief did not falter, readying another arrow wreathed in shadowy tendrils, training it directly at her adversary.

She shielded herself immediately, Sylvanas’ arrow disintegrating just before the arrowhead would have sliced through her jerkin and into her ribcage. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, keeping her guard.

“Eye for an eye… Lady Proudmoore. Attacking the Horde and its allies unprovoked was a barbaric move. I can hardly believe it was executed by the same human mage who once wished for peace. I must say I'm impressed, however, at your growth.” A smirk tugged at her lips, revealing teeth too pristine for a corpse, too sharp for an elf. 

“Peace was a fool's wish. Now I only do what I must, and the Horde must fall!” Jaina lifted her arms, and an onslaught of fire rained from above Sylvanas. Dodging was ineffective, and Sylvanas' solution seemed to be aggression. Ignoring the flame even as it singed her skin, she aimed again, this time for the head. “Eye for an eye,” she repeated, letting loose her arrow.

Jaina panicked. She had hoped the banshee would play defensively. It appeared this battle was about to become more interesting. Her thoughts were focused intently on the fire, so her barrier was no longer protecting her when the arrow was freed. To her relief, her reflexes saved her left eye; the skin on the side of her head, however, was not so lucky. The Lord Admiral cried out, her fire extinguishing almost immediately, save for what had already set the ship ablaze. Blood poured over her hand on the wound. Red clouded her vision. Her breath came in gasps. But still, she stood. 

The Warchief, now framed in brilliant orange light, sneered, rendered her body incorporeal, and hastened to Jaina's side. “The citizens of Zandalar would love to see your head roll, but I would rather watch your ears bleed, see the life drain from you, then raise you as my own champion.” 

Then, the banshee wailed.

The shriek she had experienced at Lordaron had rattled her bones as they threatened to tear her apart from the inside. This was worse. Jaina could hear nothing but the piercing, horrific sound filling her senses. Her brain pounded at her skull and everything - tides, everything- ached. All hope, joy, and love drained from her in a matter of seconds. 

But she didn't need those. Anger was enough. 

Her eyelids were heavy but she pried them open. They burned with such intensity that Sylvanas staggered, albeit slightly. “I will _never_ be your pawn,” she spat. The hand previously holding her marred head was now around the Warchief's throat, holding her against the edge of her own burning ship. Her hand glowed as she interrupted the banshee's scream. 

For the first time ever, Jaina watched as fear crept into Sylvanas’ scarlet gaze. As she stared upwards, her only form of defense stripped from her, she quivered. And it was enough to make Jaina hesitate. Her grip stayed firm, prickling with magic, but she made no more moves. Her breathing was labored and she felt faint. Her energy, physical and metaphysical, was fading so, so quickly. She doubted she could finish Sylvanas off of she tried, so she did all she could think to do. She loosened her grip ever so slightly, creating a sort of dampening collar beneath her hand.

Still holding onto Sylvanas, she teleported back to shore. The last thing she remembered before her eyes shut was shouting. Kul Tiran accents. Then gasps. Unintelligible talking. She felt pressure on her head. Then it all went blank.

…

Jaina's sense of touch returned first. The blinding pain in her head weakened to a strong ache, and the rough fabric of the bed she lay on scratched her exposed skin. Next, she could smell all the bitter scents of medicine, then taste a variety of herbs, hear hushed conversation she could not make out. And finally, her vision focused, revealing a wide room with curtained windows on every wall. She was in the infirmary, surrounded by wounded soldiers and priests attending to them. Beside her, her mother was waiting.

“You're awake,” said Katherine in her most tender voice, reserved for those she trusted. Even Jaina rarely heard it. She was running her fingers through her daughter’s white hair, the concern of a mother who had already lost a child apparent in her touch. 

As she took in her surroundings and reoriented herself, Jaina winced at the pain that accompanied movement of her head. “What happened..?” Her own voice was hoarse.

“Quite a lot,” her mother replied as she brushed a strand of hair behind her daughter's right ear, “but we won the day. _You_ won the day, Lord Admiral. Not without consequence; the physicians believe you concussed after teleportation. But a grand victory nonetheless.”

Jaina was too concerned to be proud just yet. “What of the Warchief?”

“Being held in the keep. Our alchemists put her to sleep using winter's kiss just in case, but the collar you fashioned seems to have nullified her abilities.” She smiled, a proud motherly smile. “I'm glad your father and I gave in and allowed you to study in Dalaran.”

The praise was welcome, but it was too early to celebrate. She doubted it would take long for what was left of the Horde forces to return for their warchief, if she truly had been captured. She doubted, for a moment, if she even was awake. The familiar sting of a druid's healing spell traveling along the length of her new scar told her that she was. She reluctantly allowed the healer to do their job, though she was instantly grateful as the migraine she had dissipated to a rhythmic throbbing.

“I will see to the prisoner. Forgive me, but I don't exactly trust our keep. I'll have to work fast, but I may be able to hide and hold her here just long enough for Andu- for the The High King to retrieve her for somewhere safer. Has word been send to Stormwind yet?” She tried to lift herself and was hit by a wave of exhaustion so strong she nearly collapsed back onto the downy pillow. 

Katherine put a hand on her daughter's back to stabilize her. “Please, Jaina, wait until this wound has been properly attended to.”

"War waits for no one."

With a sigh, Katherine conceded, "I still insist you allow the healers to finish what they're doing." The physician began applying a thick salve generously and unceremoniously to her wound. She held her breath to avoid moaning her displeasure until her mother began informing her of the brief remaining battle after her collapse. The combined Alliance forces had managed to push the Horde back to the shoreline, but they only had two ships left on which to escape. At least half of their forces were stuck, and were either captured or killed on sight. When Jaina teleported back to solid ground, her soldiers immediately rushed to her side but, after noticing the presence of Sylvanas Windrunner, hesitated. She trashed like a wild animal, but had been weakened by battle, and, with a combination of winter's kiss and brute force, was subdued long enough to be dragged back to Boralus. Katherine immediately sent a messenger through the Stormwind portal as Jaina was rushed to the infirmary.

Jaina thanked her mother for the thorough report. The physicians suggested she stay in the infirmary for at least the night, but she shrugged it off. “Mother, would you be so kind as to escort me to my quarters? I want to look presentable when I confront the prisoner.”

…

Sylvanas didn't know her own age. Most elves stopped counting past the first couple hundred, and undeath completely stripped her of her desire to count. 

But as she looked at herself in a reflecting stream of the Eversong Woods, she saw a younger elf staring back, hardly more than a toddler. She wore the regalia of the Windrunner family and sandals with dragonhawk feathers on them. Sylvanas felt light, free, unfettered. She felt… alive.

She wasn't, of course. She had come to terms with that long ago. But as she turned to see her two sisters, as young as she, playing in the grass, she almost forgot. All around her was her long lost home - Windrunner Spire. There was the tree under which she'd buried Alleria's pendant in retaliation to one of her sister's pranks. Across the stream there was the makeshift cot on which the three of them, as well as their brother, stargazed every weekend. On the patio just a few yards away, a servant worked at a loom while humming a Thalassian hymn. Everything was just as she remembered, a memory forever etched in her mind like an archaic painting.

Then the scene faded, replaced by one of battle - no, training. She and her sisters stood across from targets, each one holding an identical bow. Next to them, Lireesa Windrunner demonstrated with Thas'dorah. Sylvanas marveled at her mother. It had been so long since she'd laid eyes on her that she almost didn't remember her face. But there it was, sharp features, caramel skin with a scar on her right jaw, and eyes the most striking blue of any of the Windrunners.

“Mother…” she said. The voice that came out was that of a young, spry elf who wants for nothing, and it shocked her, perhaps more than the scene itself. 

Lireesa turned to look at her, stately and imposing as ever, but her voice was delicate. “Yes, Lady Moon? Why you look as though you've seen a ghost! Are you quite well?” She strode towards Sylvanas and placed both hands atop her shoulders. Sylvanas welcomed her mother's touch readily, though her eyes were tinged with regret. 

The scene changed once again, but this time it was wholly unpleasant. Lireesa's form shifted in front of her, growing in both height and build. Her skin took on a greenish tinge and her vestments became scraps of cloth barely clinging to her body. Her mother was no longer there. In her place was a brutish Amani troll with bloodshot eyes and a crude axe in its hand. It was poised and ready to strike. Sylvanas had not been prepared for the attack, but her hands moved on their own, reaching out for the knife she kept at her hip. She stabbed the troll with practiced movement, puncturing its chest and likely a lung. As it breathed out the last bit of life it had left, Sylvanas shouted a war cry.

The world around her shifted now from one battle to another. One that, no matter how much she tried, Sylvanas would never forget. She was still in Eversong Woods, but the brilliant warm hues of the foliage was no more. Trees were blighted, glowing a sickly green. The grass was lifeless and flowers wilted. Undead - not Forsaken, but Scourge - surrounded her on every side. Leading them all was the Lich King atop his risen steed. The fear that scratched at her memory was nothing compared to the hatred that burned her from the inside out. 

This was her chance, she thought. A chance to put Arthas to rest before he decimated the high elf population, before he caused so much needless and irreparable destruction. She would end it all now. 

Sylvanas knew when Frostmourne’s strike would hit her. She had certainly played the scene in her head enough times to have it memorized. Thanks to a preemptive dodge, the blade missed her by a hair's breadth, and she managed to pirouette around the skeletal steed and its wretched rider, allowing her the opportunity to draw her bow and shoot her deadliest arrow directly into The Lich King's frozen heart. She did not stop there, all but emptying her quiver, loosing arrow after arrow towards her adversary. She growled with a ferocity that reminded her of who she was. And who had made her that way.

Arthas slumped in his saddle, dark blood congealing on his armor, and fell to the ground. Sylvanas' chest heaved with fury. He was dead. Revenge was hers. But… revenge for what? There was nothing to avenge if she was still alive. As realization finally dawned on her, the Lich King rose again. This time she did not make any moves, simply watched as the sword penetrated her womb and stole her life away. She screamed, the painful memory returning to her in the most gruesome way.

She wailed, but it was no banshee's scream. This was anguish incarnate. All the suffering she had both felt and dealt since this fateful battle came rushing forth in the form of plague. Tendrils of blight-infested rot extended from the wound in her belly and crawled around every inch of her once honeyed skin. She watched herself turn, years of decomposition destroying her body all at once. Her skin grayed and her vision became clouded with blood. She became the Banshee Queen the world recognized.

But this time, she hated what she became.

…

The prison fell silent upon Jaina’s arrival. The guards shoved cards aside and stood to salute the Lord Admiral. “As you were,” she said without sparing them even a glance. Her gaze was affixed on the heavy iron door that opened to the newly upgraded cells. She hastened past petty criminals and pirates and into a corridor reserved for more dangerous prisoners - in this case, one prisoner of war. Sylvanas was located underground, where no light could reach save the subtle glow of the arcane restraints attached to the also enchanted wall. 

As she crossed the threshold, Jaina was taken aback by the sight before her. Sylvanas lay on her back, eyes shut and body limp, the bloody handprint from their earlier fight still smeared across her neck. The Lord Admiral would scarcely have believed the Forsaken could rest if not for the proof in front of her. What shocked her more, however, was the banshee's expression. It was calm, but far from peaceful. It was bereft of the hatred that seemed so immutably burned onto her face, and when she turned, there were tears in her eyes. Sylvanas stirred, her long elven brows furrowing in a pained grimace, her fingers clawing at the linens underneath. Pain adorned every inch of her features. An unassuming onlooker might have assumed torture. Inclining her bandaged head to one side, she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall and observed. Hair spilling over the edge of the mattress, Sylvanas tossed in her sleep for nearly a minute more. Jaina was beginning to tire of watching. Until her prisoner's lips parted. And she screamed.

Jaina instinctively ducked her head behind her arms, as if they would offer any sort of protection; she soon realized, though, she needed none. After having heard the banshee's wail on more than one occasion, she knew what to expect - and this was not the same. She cast a tentative glance at the warchief to find her mouth agape in agony, not fury. Her body was contorted as if she were being electrocuted, but what coursed through her body was concentrated arcane energy, arguably more painful than the alternative, caused by the collar Jaina had conjured around her neck. Perhaps the mage had overdone it, but she wasn’t taking chances. The unique abilities of a banshee as strong as this could have Boralus at its knees; she had failed her people once and did not intend to do so again. Sylvanas was an unpredictable, powerful, and driven monster. 

And yet, staring into the wide, crimson eyes of that monster, soaked with tears that made them look more like pools of blood, Jaina felt pity.

Pity for someone who had destroyed the home of an entire people, who had murdered entire battlefields of people in favor of raising more soldiers? She was getting too soft. She did not interrupt, just stood still as the grave, patiently awaiting Sylvanas’ relent.

Eventually, she collapsed onto the stone tiles in a limp heap of leather. Jaina had never thought she would see a leader of the mighty Horde in such a condition before her, but she had to admit it felt… relieving, at the least, to watch her, tethered and helpless. This was justice, she told herself. Sylvanas would suffer as every poor blight-touched soul did. Justice.

An involuntary shudder coursed through Sylvanas’ body as she gazed up at her captor, anger insufficiently masking the fear in her eyes. “You don't know the forces with which you meddle, Proudmoore.”

Jaina fumbled, carefully considering every word she uttered. Putting Sylvanas to sleep hadn't even been her idea, but if she was exhibiting genuine fear, let it be directed towards the one in charge. “I know what I'm doing, Windrunner." She spoke with confidence she wished she truly felt. "You've underestimated me before. Doing so again may be your end.”

Sylvanas scoffed, “I have met my ‘end’. Do you believe your threat scares me?”

Jaina looked pointedly at the ruffled sheets, then back at Sylvanas, whose eyes were now dry but still glossy. “I do.” She scrutinized her prisoner, but to her chagrin, the Forsaken's deadpan had returned. Sylvanas sat back against the stone wall and crossed her legs atop the squeaky bed as if it were a Throne, though she looked far from regal now. Stripped of everything but her leather tunic and leggings, she appeared much less imposing than before. Clad in Admiralty garb, Jaina was imperial in comparison.

“Enjoy the view while you can, Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas broke the silence, “My stay won't be long.”

“You're right about that. I imagine King Wrynn will be here soon to escort you to the Stockades, where you will receive proper judgment and atone for your crimes against the Alliance.”

Much to her surprise, Sylvanas grinned. A grisly smile. Piercing the dimness of the room, her crimson eyes and tear-marked cheeks added to the macabre effect. “The Stockades? I quite look forward to visiting Stormwind, though I can't imagine my stay will be long, considering how brief Princess Talanji's was.”

Jaina reddened despite herself. She could have prevented the escape, she knew, if only she’d acted sooner. Sylvanas seemed to enjoy tormenting her with her past mistakes. She considered leaving then, not giving her the opportunity to insult her further, but she was known for her obstinacy. “King Wrynn will decide your fate soon enough. May justice be swift.”

“I'm certain it will.”

Silence followed and Jaina had to bite her lip to avoid lashing out, letting years of rage against the Horde out on their leader. How tempting it was to thrust an icicle directly into her dead heart, see if that did anything, and if not, remove her head from her shoulders. The brutality of her own thoughts sent a shudder down her spine.

She stayed her hand and inhaled deeply, the subtle somnolent scent of winter's kiss lingering in the cell making her drowsy, which did not escape Sylvanas’ detection. “What's the matter, dear? Pressures of leadership finally getting to you? Kul Tiras is quite the step up from Ther-” she was cut off with a choking gasp.

“Hold your tongue, Banshee.” Jaina's eyes were alight with furious arcane energy as she tightened the collar around the Warchief's neck. “You forget your place! You are _my_ prisoner. An intruder on _my_ land.” She stepped so close that Sylvanas could have laid hands on her. Let her try, she thought. Her voice lowered to a whisper, she said, “I decide your fate. And I am not the naive ruler I once was.” 

When she was content that her threat had been received, the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras turned to leave, loosening the collar's grip, though it remained tighter than it was when this meeting had begun. As her foot passed over the threshold, a voice trailed behind her, “No, you most definitely are not.”

Jaina shut the door.

…

That night, as she shed the many layers of fabric that came with admiralty, Jaina Proudmoore wished she could shed her doubts as easily. Despite her inferior position, Sylvanas had read her like a book, highlighting exactly what she feared most: not living up to the expectations of her people. Since rising to her mother's position, the people of Boralus had been nothing but confident in her abilities, but past mistakes had her on thin ice. One wrong move and the houses of Kul Tiras would not hesitate to denounce her. In Sylvanas, she saw an opportunity to strengthen their trust, but the warchief would obviously not make it easy.

If Sylvanas wanted mind games, Jaina would oblige for the time being, but not without retaliation. It was up to her to decide who broke first, and she had a feeling she was already at an advantage. The fear that the mighty warchief exhibited, both on the ship and in the cell, was such valuable intelligence. She guessed she may have been one of the only people to have witnessed it and lived to tell the tale.

“What does a corpse dream of?” she wondered aloud. Surely the banshee had experienced enough turmoil throughout her life - and afterlife - to fuel a thousand nightmares, but she had also wrought enough destruction to fuel a million.

Justice.

Jaina had neither the patience nor time to contemplate the mortality of the undead, but discovered she could think of little else. As she was wont to do in times when her mind raced with incessant thoughts, she wrote. From her desk drawer she withdrew a leatherbound journal inlaid with crystal stars. The first page, written in Daelin Proudmoore's handwriting, read "As long as stars do shine." The rest of the pages were blank, but with a whispered incantation, words materialized, years of letters that would never be seen by anyone but her, least of all the man to whom they were addressed.

_Father, today a battle was won. A battle that may have determined the fate of Kul Tiras, and perhaps even turned the tide of this war. I wonder if you would be proud of me, or if you would have done differently. Either way, I would welcome your council. The Horde warchief is now my prisoner, yet still I feel at a disadvantage. Even as she lies in chains before me, Sylvan-_

Jaina erased the Warchief's name.

_-the Warchief tempts fate. She, like many others, thinks me weak and naive. I know that, given time, I could find a weakness, exploit it, and destroy the Horde once and for all, but I fear I lack the strength. Please, lend me your courage so that I might become half the leader you were. I love you, father. And I'm sorry._

_-The Daughter of the Sea_

Jaina sealed the journal before her tears could stain the parchment. The entry did little to assuage her anxieties, but writing at least exhausted her enough to allow some sleep, albeit restless. She awoke several times throughout the night, shadowy figures appearing in the corners of her vision in the waking hours. Her nights were haunted by the past more often than not. That was one thing she and Sylvanas had in common, though she was loathe to admit any similarities. 

When dawn broke outside her window, Jaina breathed a sigh of relief and began her morning routine, first braiding her hair out of her face, then concealing the dark circles beneath her eyes. Then, sipping a conjured cup of tea, she ruminated on the happenings of the previous night, as well as what the following day may have in store. She expected a response from Stormwind within the hour; Anduin would never leave such an important matter for longer than a night. Alliance forces would likely be marching through the portal to take custody of the warchief any moment now. Jaina would want to follow. Sylvanas had made the irrefutable point that the Stockades was not the most reliable prison, and it could use some upgrades like those she had added here in Kul Tiras. And, she admitted to herself, she wanted as much say in the Warchief's fate As Anduin would allow.

She pondered until her cup was empty save for some leaves at the bottom, which loosely resembled a serpent. She left it sitting on her desk when she finally emerged from her chambers. The Keep was quiet as usual, save for a handful of adventurers coming and going. She greeted them heartily, thanking them all for their service to both Kul Tiras and the Alliance as a whole, but continued to anxiously await a message that never came. 

Come midday, Jaina decided to check for herself if Anduin had properly received the news. There was no feasible reason he wouldn't have. Usually their communication, given the easily accessible portals between the two nations, was quick and unhindered. 

When she first arrived at the portal, nothing seemed amiss. Stormwind City in all its glory glimmered on the other side, no disruptions to be seen. Tentatively, she placed a hand through the tear in space. It felt like the warm, breezy weather of Elwynn Forest, albeit dry, and her hand wasn't falling off… As she began to sink her arm further through, though, she felt it. The concentrated power of the arcane that could only be found from a select few sources. This portal had been tampered with.

Either before or during the attack, the Horde had somehow tapped into their portal system. Who knew where her messenger had been sent? And Anduin was still oblivious as to what had transpired.

Sylvanas had planned ahead. Jaina had underestimated _her_. Now she was paying for her lack of foresight. Had Sylvanas intended all of this? She hadn't the slightest idea what her plan may be, but she was determined to get to the bottom of it before any more harm could be done. “Block traffic through the portals,” she told the magi in charge, “I don't want anyone going through them until we've closed, reopened, and examined each one.”

Everyone scrambled to follow her orders, but she was already on her way to the keep.

…

Sylvanas had become well acquainted with silence in her years of undeath. At first it dissolved her, that cold nothingness she heard when her soul was separated from her body. Then, it terrified her. Any moment of quietude, and her thoughts returned to the afterlife. She feared silence was the end. But now, silence was a comfort. The afterlife was just that. Life after life. She was living, and silence was but a part of this life.

Becoming a prisoner of war was far from comfortable, but it mattered little. She wouldn’t mind wasting away in a cell for a few days while the rest of her plan unfolded. Throughout the night and following day, she meditated. Not on any thought nor for any grand reason, simply to pass the time more quickly. Things got awfully monotonous when you didn't sleep - at least, she hadn't until the Kul Tirans drugged her. This was peaceful enough, despite being chained to a wall and constantly prodded with arcane energy which, she assumed by its effects on her, was braided between tresses of holy light. Ugh, priests.

A click echoed through the chamber. Speak of the devil… Proudmoore was furious, and it was delightful to witness, red hot ire spreading like a flame over her delicate features. Nothing was more exhilarating to her than watching the undisciplined emotions of the living taking control of their feeble minds. Sylvanas maintained her stoicism, though she allowed herself a smirk.

Jaina slapped her across the face.

No one had dared to insult her so in decades. To say she was taken aback would be a gross understatement, though the pain was dull against her rough skin. Regardless, Jaina had more effrontery than she had seen from any other Alliance leader. She thought them passive, but Jaina… she was different, intriguing. A shame she wouldn't be here long enough to study her more closely.

"Where did you send my messenger?”

Ahh… so Oculeth had been able to tap into their portal system. The Nightborne were more valuable allies than she had bargained for. He had assured her that he could reroute the course from Stormwind to Orgrimmar, and it seemed he had succeeded. "You needn't worry about a rescue. Your messenger must be a servant of my Horde by now."

The human's anger threatened to become a physical danger, an emotion that would, if not controlled, manifest into arcane energy. Sylvanas, powerful as she was, needed to tread carefully. In just a few days, everything would fall into place. Until then, she would gain whatever information she could manipulate out of the newly appointed Lord Admiral. Her lips parted to speak, but closed out of curiosity once Jaina pulled a pouch from her sleeve. From it, she removed two cones of incense.

"Winter's Kiss," Jaina explained, "has a strong soporific effect when burned. Kul Tiran natives often use a small amount to help children sleep. Some medics use stronger concentrations as an anaesthetic. One cone had you out for 24 hours. If I recall, it wasn't a restful slumber."

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. She found it increasingly difficult to look at her captor directly. "You've proven I can do you no harm here," she said, gesturing at the chains connecting her collar and shackles to the walls. "What do you have to gain from torturing a poor, defenseless woman?" 

"Information. And satisfaction."

The sadism intertwined with those words finally broke Sylvanas' impassivity. Her ears twitched in surprise, an elven gesture she had long repressed, and she grit her teeth. "What do you want to know?"

"What else did you plan? Why did you invade Kul Tiras with insufficient forces and risk your own safety?"

Before either woman could speak further, heavy footsteps echoed from outside the cell. Sylvanas laughed and leaned back to enjoy what was about to unfold. "That will be your answer."

A guard cautiously opened the door and kneeled before Jaina. "News, Lord Admiral. From Stormwind." In his outstretched hand was an envelope, sealed not in the royal seal of Stormwind, but that of Gilneas. "Greymane?" she said aloud.

If the banshee's heart could beat, it would have been pounding in morbid anticipation. Everything, everything she had worked for hinged on this letter. She studied Jaina's face, watched as the emotions on it fell.

Confusion. 

Worry. 

Dread. 

Outrage.

Woe.

Jaina breathed one word. "Anduin." 

And Sylvanas knew she had succeeded.


	2. Game of Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas Windrunner’s plans are only just beginning to unfold. Even as the Warchief lies in chains before her, Jaina discovers High King Wrynn is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to write 😩😩 Between moving and working I’ve been stretched thin. I’m proud of this chapter though. Thanks for sticking with me!

_Jaina,_

_Pardon the informality of this message. Time is of the essence, as the Alliance requires you now more than ever. Two days ago Anduin and an escort set out for the Arathi Highlands, as Horde activity has increased. Too many wounded for too few healers. He was persistent despite my advice, and news has just reached Stormwind of his capture. The SI:7 has already been dispatched but I invite you, as I intend to every Alliance leader, to an assembly in Stormwind City immediately. We mustn’t wait to discuss and determine our next move._

_\- Greymane_

The letter, written on crumpled, ordinary parchment and stained with black ink, was scribbled in the shorthand of a man struggling to maintain his composure. In Genn’s particular case, struggling to maintain his human form. Even the Gilnean seal had been expeditiously pressed onto the envelope. It was dated two days prior. The day of the attack. Why had it not reached her sooner? “When did you receive this?” she demanded of the messenger.

“Minutes ago, Lord Admiral,” they said between shaky breaths. Had the portal from Stormwind been sabotaged as well? Jaina struggled to keep her hands from trembling. Rage or fear, maybe both, coursed through her veins as she reread the message, scanning every line for hope but finding none. The parchment burned to ash in her hand as she turned back to face Sylvanas. She glared with a look that could have killed, her gaze sharper than any crafted blade. “Inform Tandred I will depart for Stormwind shortly,” she said over her shoulder. The messenger excused themself with a bow.

Sylvanas kept her gaze fixed on the ground, but didn’t bother hiding the triumphant smile she wore. The door slammed shut and Jaina, fuming, raised her voice as she wouldn't in any other company. “What have you done to Anduin?” 

Silence.

She stared deeper into Sylvanas’ sober eyes, her own flashing blue as ice coalesced around her body and formed into icicles that could easily pierce through decayed flesh. “If he is alive, I suggest you tell me immediately. I will take great pleasure in killing you if you’ve harmed my king, as many times as I must.”

The prisoner wavered but still kept her mouth closed. Enough frost had collected in the room that it made even the queen of the undead shiver, but she still did not speak.

Jaina raised her arms above her head, training each icicle directly towards the space between the Warchief’s eyes. “I will not warn you again."

Silence.

"So be it." Jaina wasted no more time on the Warchief. Her frost lances, strengthened by years of training, tore through the air towards Sylvanas. Unable to evanesce thanks to the collar around her neck, she dodged in a panic, ice shattering against the wall. She looked… shocked.

“Do you think I’m bluffing?” Jaina yelled, throwing another icicle, though it halted just before reaching Sylvanas’ brow. Shock transformed into unmistakable fear. Sylvanas was _quivering_.

Gore-red eyes closed. “He is alive,” the Banshee Queen conceded.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t,” she spat. “That much was left up to those who executed the plan so that, in the event of… unforeseeable circumstances, that information would remain undiscovered by the Alliance.”

“Tell me what you plan to do with him.”

“Ah, but sweet Daughter of the Sea… I would prefer to keep it a surprise. And considering you need me--more or less--alive if you hope to retrieve your little king, you have no choice but to comply with my request.”

Jaina blanched. Sylvanas’ planning was meticulous. She was five steps ahead of her and the weight of that reality was crushing. If she were to reserve any hope of retrieving Anduin safely, Jaina would have to tread very, very carefully; though she despised relenting to the Warchief's demands, this was one argument she could not win. The frost in the cell dissipated. "You may not die," she said, and glanced at the cones of incense that lay at her feet, "but you will sleep." Flames danced across her skin momentarily before igniting the incense in a blue burst of heat. Without another word, Jaina Proudmoore left Sylvanas behind to fend for herself against the terrors she faced behind closed eyes.

…

Stormwind Keep was in an uproar when Jaina teleported. "Lady Proudmoore!" The unfamiliar voice reached her ears before she had even acclimated to the change of scenery. A guard, face partially concealed by an ornate helmet, approached in a hurry. "Those leaders who have arrived have all gathered in the war room. King Greymane requests your presence as soon as possible."

With a nod, Jaina allowed the guard to escort her, internally rehearsing along the way. They made their way through several corridors and past multiple closed doors before the sound of raised voices reached her ears. 

“How could you let him into such a dangerous situation?” 

"He chose to help his own troops in need," Genn growled, even though currently in his human form. 

"You are his advisor, aren't you?"

"And he is your _King!_ " Jaina could hear the feral tone in his voice, harsh but tinged with worry all the same. Crossing the threshold, she could see the same paradox in his eyes. Genn had never been difficult to read; she knew that he took Anduin's safety very personally. He also, unfortunately, did not take kindly to criticism. Regardless, laying blame should not be their primary concern. She cleared her throat.

Heads turned to greet her and relief washed over the worgen king's features. "Jaina, I'm so glad you could make it," he said, "We would welcome your council." 

"I am, as well, though I wish I could visit under better circumstances."

"As do I, Lady."

She debated correcting him--her title was far more important to her now that she led a nation with pride--but decided against wasting the time. "I come bearing news, both good and bad." She paused, waiting to make sure everyone present had her full attention, then confidently announced, "Sylvanas Windrunner is in my custody."

The room was quiet before, but now the stark silence was so apparent she could hear her own heartbeat, Genn's labored breathing, and Alleria's fingertips rhythmically tapping against the table. The latter had a pained expression, concealing beneath it doubt, fear, and something else Jaina couldn't quite place. The Council of Three Hammers began to whisper amongst themselves while the others averted their gazes, stunned and contemplative.

Jaina took an open seat and folded her hands. "I don't know the full extent of her schemes, but my understanding is that Sylvanas staged an attack on Kul Tiras as a distraction from her true target. The Horde hijacked my portals, preventing intercity communication. This gave her the time and ability to capture King Wrynn without anyone realizing in time to stop her."

“I’d wager the increased activity in Arathi was no coincidence either,” said Genn.

After a pause, Jaina continued, "We should open negotiations with the Horde immediately for an exchange. As valuable as the Warchief could be to our cause, without Anduin it will be all for naught." Already a commotion seemed ready to erupt. Multiple people began to speak at once, their words lost in the crossfire. Most prominently, Tyrande, onyx eyes full of rage, protested that no one but the night elves should decide Sylvanas' fate. Almost everyone present could speak against the atrocities Sylvanas had personally committed against their people, and Jaina believed it safe to assume that no one would easily agree to surrender her to the Horde, even in exchange for Anduin's life. Genn looked especially conflicted, obliged to decide between two impossible choices. Either destroy the person responsible for the genocide of his and others' people at the risk of losing the King he loved like family, or save his King while allowing the Warchief to return to power.

"Enough." Turalyon's voice reverberated throughout the modest room. He was a man of compelling integrity, and it was apparent in the way one word demanded the attention of some of the most headstrong people in the Alliance. "Should we not focus on the matter at hand? Our High King is missing and it should be our first and only priority to safely retrieve him, using all available resources. I'd say capturing a political prisoner as powerful as the Warchief herself was a stroke of luck in our predicament."

"We don't even know if he's alive!"

"We do," interjected Jaina before the argument could escalate any further. "He lives, though I know nothing beyond that. Sylvanas made it a point to keep his location a secret even from herself."

"She told you this willingly?" asked Tyrande. The skepticism in her voice made Jaina's eyes narrow.

"I wouldn't necessarily say willingly." If Tyrande wanted further extrapolation, she didn't show it, slumping back in her too-small seat. "Regardless," Jaina continued, "Anduin's life is more important than anything to the Alliance right now, and if we must keep Sylvanas alive to do so, that's a sacrifice we'll have to make."

Tyrande once again raised a challenge, "And who are you to make such a decision for the whole of the Alliance, Lady Proud-"

"Lord Admiral." This time she would accept no disrespect. "But you are right. I cannot make that decision on my own. It's up to all of us." She glanced expectantly at everyone in the room. It was Alleria's gaze that caught hers first. The elf had a darkness looming over her that wasn't a gift of the void.

She rose to her feet, the chair scraping the polished tile beneath. "Sylvanas cannot be trusted. Regardless of her capture, she's crafty, the cleverest of all the surviving Windrunners. I have no doubt there's more to this plan than stealing away our King." Alleria paused, a mournful sigh escaping her lips. “However, abandoning Anduin was never an option. If we allow whatever my sister intends for him to transpire, we'll be in such danger that it may not matter what we do with her." 

Turalyon nodded his agreement, a proud fondness written across his face, and Tyrande, despite her protests, conceded with a flick of her wrist. To Jaina's surprise, the next to speak was Matthias Shaw of SI-7. Though not a racial leader, his intelligence was always welcome in such discussions. Anduin trusted him, and that was enough for her. "There may yet be a way to save Anduin without sacrificing the Warchief as a prisoner." The silence returned as everyone focused their attention on the spymaster. Clearing his throat, he said, "My men are good at what they do. They've been on the King's trail since the moment his absence was discovered. Perhaps we can open negotiations, as the Lord Admiral suggested, but draw them out long enough to allow my men to locate and retrieve King Wrynn."

"And if they corrupt him, torment him, or--Light forbid--turn him into a living corpse during that time?" asked Genn.

"At the first indication of any harm befalling the King, we willingly offer the banshee in exchange. But at least this way… we have a chance at justice."

Jaina considered his words carefully. The thought of the Horde twisting Anduin to their will was unbearable, but he was no longer the impetuous boy he once was. He was a King. A capable ruler who could protect himself, at least for now. If he could hold out for a few days, perhaps they needn't release Sylvanas. She waited to see what the others had to say of Shaw's proposal. 

"If your plan works, what will we do with the banshee afterwards?" An unexpected voice rose up, so rarely heard that Jaina almost didn't recognize it as Aysa Cloudsinger's. "Will we hold a trial as we did for Hellscream? I remember a quite unfavorable outcome."

"Absolutely not. Sylvanas needs no judges to decide her fate. I think we can all agree she deserves no mercy." He gave Tyrande a pointed look. "It will be up to the King to determine the means." For the first time since her arrival Jaina felt a shift in the atmosphere of the room, as if agreement was a tangible thing that had blanketed everyone present. 

"Your plan is sound, Shaw." This voice belonged to the Prophet Velen. "I think it has been proven today that without our High King, there is no Alliance. If we can get him back while also ending the war, I think it's a risk that must be taken."

Matthias glanced around the table at all the nodding heads. "All in favor?" Several hands shot up, Jaina's among the first. Genn, Velen, Gelbin Mekkatorque, Turalyon and Alleria, and the Council of Three Hammers followed suit. Tyrande hesitated for a moment, but eventually relented. No one objected.

"Then it is decided," said Genn. "For the time being, Sylvanas should be kept in the Stockades. We can question her and-"

"Forgive me, Genn, but I don't trust the Stockades to hold a banshee. Talanji's escape proves they need some upgrades. And after the Nightborne tampered with my portals, I'm wary of transporting her here from Kul Tiras. My prisons are underground and equipped with magical restraints that have held her and nullified her abilities without fail."

Greymane protested, "As a prisoner of war she belongs to the kingdom of Stormwind."

"She attacked Kul Tiras, resulting in her capture. By me."

"I agree with Lord Admiral Proudmoore. We shouldn't tamper with what has worked thus far." Alleria was quick to come to her defense, and Turalyon readily supported his wife.

"Very well."

"As for the kingdom…"

"It currently has no king."

"I believe releasing this information to the public would be negligent. It would only frighten Alliance citizens, and perhaps hinder our own plans," said Genn, "If you would let me, I will stand in his place as regent, just until he returns."

No one objected. 

Matthias concluded, "Very well. Sylvanas will remain in Kul Tiras. Greymane will be regent king of Stormwind, and the SI-7 will spare no resources to find Anduin. We should need no longer than one week. If that time lapses without results, we will give up the Warchief in order to retrieve him."

This was a better outcome than Jaina could have hoped for. Though not foolproof, it gave the Alliance a decent chance at rescuing Anduin and, at the very least, returning inter-faction relationships to their usual hostility. Relief set in as she took in a full breath. "We have a sound plan, but let's all remain in close contact should anything go amiss. I implore you all to check city portals regularly."

Formal meetings such as this never seemed to have a proper conclusion. The leaders excused themselves individually, exchanging pleasantries before stepping out to return to their cities. Jaina stayed for a while, unwilling to return to Kul Tiras and the prisoner waiting there just yet. She was lost in thought, staring at a painting of Varian and Tiffin Wrynn holding a young Anduin in their arms. Jaina remembered the day she learned of his mother's untimely demise, and how so soon after she resolved that she would care for him as her own kin. He called her "Aunt Jaina" to this day, and nothing filled her with more pride than watching him become the strong, compassionate ruler he was. If only he were here, safe. She would ensure nothing happened to him again, no matter what.

"Lord Admiral?" Jaina jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, her attention returning to the present. The voice behind her belonged to Alleria. "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you."

"My fault for letting my guard down," she admitted.

"You've nothing to guard yourself from here in the city…" Alleria trailed off and absentmindedly pressed her lips together. "I wish to speak with you in private, if you would."

"Of course." Jaina nodded and readily followed Alleria down the many corridors of the Keep and into what she assumed to be her quarters. The room itself was brighter than she would have expected, a skylight bathing it in the day's final rays of sunlight. Several elven baubles twinkled like stars against a crimson sky and reflected prismatic brilliance across the walls, lined with golden tapestries depicting several historical events she had only read about. Alleria was sentimental, it seemed. But who could blame her? She had lost so much.

Jaina took the seat offered to her and accepted a small cup of tea, procuring a cube of sugar to add to the strong elven spice. As Jaina sipped, Alleria paced. And paced. And paced.

Jaina cleared her throat.

The void elf paused and shook her head as if forcefully dismissing whatever thoughts ran through her mind. "Sorry," she said, "I'm afraid I cannot decide whether or not I should request this of you."

"Say what you will, and I'll make my own decision." Jaina paused and set aside her teacup. "It's about your sister, I presume?"

Alleria nodded once, a mournful gesture, as if hearing the word had reopened a barely closed wound. She closed her eyes. "Vereesa and I met with Sylvanas recently. To reclaim Windrunner Spire. Dangerous as our reunion may have been, I had to see for myself if my little sister truly had become the monster of which I'd heard so much."

"And? Did you come to a conclusion?"

"I wish I could say yes."

Jaina's eyes narrowed in sympathy, not malice, but Alleria didn't seem to catch the difference. 

"I know that she is irredeemable," Alleria continued, her rueful tone deepening with every word. "The atrocities she has committed are too great, I know. I know. But part of me can't accept it. I want to aid the Alliance. I want to fight for the King's cause, and expunge those in the Horde that do naught but harm, but…" The sunlight waned as she spoke, and her eyes gained a deep violet tint.. "I couldn't come to a conclusion. Sylvanas is certainly not the sister I once knew. She is hateful and vicious… but just as driven and facetious as ever before. I cannot," she choked back a sob, "I cannot bring myself to kill her unless I know that the sister I loved is truly lost."

Silence permeated the space between them. Alleria collected herself, wiping her eyes and letting out the shaking breath she had been holding before looking at Jaina imploringly. The mage averted her own eyes. "What would you ask of me, Alleria?" 

"I would ask that you speak with Sylvanas. Truly speak. And listen. Listen for any remnant of the woman she once was, any idiosyncrasy in her words that suggest she isn't only a heartless tyrant hell-bent on destroying all life. If… if you confirm that is all that remains, I will mourn the death of my sister, and show no mercy to the Warchief."

Curiosity got the better of Jaina. "And if I tell you otherwise? You know that the other leaders will not sympathize."

"I know that," Alleria snapped, then, more quietly, continued, "I know that if she could be saved, she would have been long ago. But I will still try. Windrunners do not leave each other behind. I did so once already, when I stepped through the Dark Portal all those years ago. I won't do so again. Not if she still exists somewhere within that wretched vessel."

Empathy pervaded Jaina's mind, a frigid reminder of who she used to be. "Would you like to find out for yourself?"

"Even if I did so, Sylvanas would show me no glimpse of my sister, I fear. I'm the last person she would display weakness to. You, however, have a way of convincing people to show their true colors."

Unsure whether to be flattered or take offense, Jaina stood, folding her hands behind her back as she walked towards a tapestry that she now recognized as the three sisters surrounding Windrunner Spire. Sylvanas, woven from gold and cerulean thread, was smiling without a trace of malice. Jaina had never known the elf when she was alive, but if Sylvanas was as beautiful as depicted here, she wished she had. She thought of her own family. She'd had the chance to reignite a relationship with her mother and Tandred, but Derek and her father were lost to the tide forever, with no chance of a new life as Sylvanas had. If they were in the same situation, could she remorselessly destroy them?

No. She couldn't.

"I'll do it, but you may not like what you hear."

"That I can live with, but not with the uncertainty. Thank you, Jaina. This means more than you know." In a grateful gesture, Alleria clasped Jaina's hands in her own, her ears drooping in respect, and the cool sensation of metal touched the mage's palm. A badge of gold with shining filigree. "She mentioned losing her best ranger when last we met. I want to return this. As an apology." 

Jaina accepted the trinket, feeling the sentimental power it held within, but couldn't form any words of consolation in return. Instead, she placed a gentle hand atop Alleria's shoulder, and spoke with her eyes, offering an impression of solidarity only those who had known loss and war and regret would understand.

"Stay safe, Jaina, my sister's always been a handful."

"I think I'll manage."

…

Once again, Sylvanas slept, unwilling, unprepared, and unsuspecting. Cold dampness was all she could feel, physically from the cell she was held in, inwardly from undeath, from the nightmares such a curse bestowed upon its victims.

Her unconscious mind returned her to the days she most wished she could forget. Time passed so slowly then, when her mind was her own but her actions were not. And those actions were despicable. Guided only by the Lich King's twisted desires and violent thirst for extermination.

In his full and terrible glory, he sat atop the steed he had raised from the dead. Sinew and rotten skin dangled from it's mangled form and its eyes blazed with the same suffering Sylvanas felt. The Lich King presented her: a floating, spectral banshee with her soul trapped inside, paralyzed and yearning only for vengeance. As she observed what was once her people's land, whatever was left of her heart tore in two. Putrid ziggurats infected the once bright and healthy grass, staining it sickly shades of grey. Scourge forces, old and new--her own rangers among them--wandered, groaning as though every step was agonizing. She tried to cry, but wasn't even allowed that comfort. 

The sobs caught in her throat before they ever escaped her lips. Even as an elf was dragged in chains towards her, even as the Lich King forced perverted thoughts into her mind, she was powerless. "Sylvanas," his ghastly voice echoed. The eyes of the elf before them shot up in horror at the sound of the Ranger General's name, and Sylvanas blanched in recognition. Valandrin, once a Farstrider under her tutelage. He had been one of her best rangers, an excellent marksman, but relieved himself of duty after the birth of his first child. She mourned his family and whatever cruel fate they'd received; she hoped, for their sake, they had only been killed. What awaited him, she did not wish to know. The Lich King continued, "scream."

Confusion spread throughout her incorporeal body before shifting into terror as she opened her mouth. Sylvanas Windrunner, banshee pawn of the scourge, let loose an unholy screech so shrill and inordinate that even some amongst the army of dead flinched. The one living soul, that of Valandrin, was more unfortunate. His every feature responded to her cry. 

First, his eyes bulged, terror and pain apparent in the desperate way they turned towards her, bloodshot. His limbs seized but could only grind against the metal of the restraints. His cries turned from cursing, to pleading, to unintelligible wailing as his eardrums burst, sending a fresh trickle of blood down the sides of his neck. Sylvanas wanted to stop, wanted to protect her people from this wicked fate, but no matter how much she willed it, the Lich King would not relent control until he was content.

She could do nothing but stare, an onlooker of her own existence, as she murdered one of her own.

Mercifully, the screaming stopped, both hers and Valandrin's. The latter slumped as the last remnant of life in him faded, but the chains encompassing his wrists kept him upright, arms bending at an unnatural angle while his head drooped and blood stained his silver hair rusty red. The necromancers holding his chains let go and his lifeless body crashed against the ground. Sylvanas hoped it the end of this sadistic display, but she knew better than to believe Arthas' torture could be overcome by death. Against her will her head turned to reveal him raising Frostmourne, its icy necrotic energy gathering into a thick fog that moved immediately towards its target. Valandrin's body rose, a puppet on a string, and new life was breathed into him. His eyes, once bright emeralds so full of compassion, dimmed into a dull, cold grey. When Frostmourne released him, he knelt and spoke in a voice just as lifeless, "My vengeance is yours, my king."

Those words haunted her until she awoke hours later. She didn't scream this time, but found her cheeks wet and her hands trembling. She was alone in the darkness of the cell, save for the subtle pulse of glowing arcane and holy energy that kept her abilities at bay. Abilities she would rather forget right now anyway, after recalling exactly how dreadful they could be. It wasn't as if she'd forgotten. No, she remembered every deplorable thing she did during that time when her will was not her own. But always she pushed it to the far recesses of her mind; facing the memories in grim clarity was something she wished she needn't ever do again. This was the very reason she had chosen never to sleep once she regained control. The damn herb with which Proudmoore had dosed her succeeded where no other drug ever had. It could be a powerful weapon if she could form a tolerance…

The multiple clicks of the door locks unlatching interrupted her thoughts. Again? Her eyes rolled as Jaina sauntered in. She didn't appear to be carrying any pouches this time, for which Sylvanas was incredibly grateful, though her countenance remained still as a gargoyle's. The mage seemed less troubled than she would have liked.

"Any interesting dreams?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Jaina shrugged and gathered her robes in her hands so she could crouch to Sylvanas' eye level. An interesting contrast to the way she usually looked down to her. "You will be staying here until further notice."

"I look forward to enjoying your gracious company, Lord Admiral." It wasn't entirely a lie, the cell was quite droll on her own, and what better way to know thy enemy than spending precious time together? "How did your meeting go?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

It was oddly charming, the way they bantered. Most people assumed her humor was as dead as she, but Sylvanas quite enjoyed a repartee now and then, and she had to admire the human for her boldness. She glanced around the cell, the collar around her neck shifting uncomfortably against the dried blood still caked there. Flakes of darkened crimson fell as she picked at it. "I don't suppose you'd allow me a bath? It's beginning to smell like someone died in here." 

The astonished expression on Jaina's face was priceless.

"Is something the matter, Jaina?" She dared to forgo her official title, though the Lord Admiral scarcely seemed to notice.

"I just didn't realize you could--"

"Could what? Laugh? Have a sense of humor? I'm dead, not vapid."

"So it would seem." The smallest hint of a smirk tugged at Jaina's lips, and Sylvanas considered it a victory. After a long moment of deliberation, the mage finally answered, wrinkling her nose, "You were right about the smell though. You reek."

"Yes, that's been established. Fetch me a pail, won't you?"

Without any warning a jolt of arcane electricity overwhelmed every intact nerve in her body. Though the pain subsided just as quickly, it was enough to make her realize she'd overstepped her bounds. Jaina stood silent, arms impassively crossed over her chest.

"Please?"

One white eyebrow lifted.

Sylvanas bowed her head in aggravated mockery and ground her teeth. "Lord Admiral, would you please be so kind as to bring me a pail of water so that I may bathe?"

The triumphant expression that graced Jaina's features before she stepped out of the room was irritating, but Sylvanas was grateful, at least, that she was able to get her way. She wasn't sure why the human was so agreeable of a sudden, but she didn’t trust it. Jaina Proudmoore was nothing if not intelligent. It was an opportunity to study her enemy, though, and Sylvanas loved nothing more than to get inside someone’s head.

After ten minutes lapsed, Sylvanas half expected the mage not to return. Then she heard the familiar click and sizzle as both corporeal and magical locks were opened. Jaina had returned with not only a small, decorated wash basin, but a tray supporting chiseled soap and several cloths as well. Both floated several feet off the ground behind her. Of course they did.

Sylvanas waited in silence as her captor arranged everything before her. Steam rose from the basin. What a luxury; she even got hot water. Upon closer inspection, she could see the details sculpted into each bar of soap. Lavender sprigs and other various herbs had been baked in alongside the oils and fats, resulting in a rather lovely, aromatic creation. Even the cloths appeared to be expertly woven.

"Why go to such lengths for a prisoner?" she asked when she finished inspecting everything in front of her.

Jaina mused for a moment, as if unsure she even had an immediate answer, then said, "I'm interested in seeing how you respond to kindness."

Sylvanas' lip curled in a sneer while she began to dip her hands into the shallow basin. "Kindness? Interesting weapon of choice."

"I never said it was a weapon."

"Everything is a weapon."

At that the mage said nothing, and Sylvanas couldn't tell if it was for lack of a proper response, or if she agreed with the notion. Sylvanas bathed in silence, pleasantly surprised by the gentleness of the handcrafted soap on her dry, cracked skin. Clean streaks ran down her face amidst the dirt and blood. She paid little attention to her captor, Jaina's watchful gaze the only indication of her presence. Sylvanas was hesitant to remove her leathers. She wasn't shy, but had to admit she felt too vulnerable to undress in front of her enemy. Her body felt too fragile, her skin too thin, the beat of her heart too slow. No, she wouldn't allow Jaina the satisfaction of seeing her in a weakened state.

She tried scrubbing at her neck to scrape off the dried flaking blood there, but the collar obscured it too much. She expected mockery or indifference from Jaina, but when she looked up, the human was walking in her direction. The Admiralty coat had been shrugged off and she wore only a thin tawny blouse tucked into her high-waisted navy pants and black boots buckled to the knee. She truly looked like a different woman than the Lady of Theramore.

Jaina knelt. Before Sylvanas could question her, she had taken a washcloth and begun dipping it into the basin. "May I?" she asked as she raised her hands to the Warchief's neck. Had the gesture not been so sudden and unanticipated, Sylvanas would have hissed and taken whatever opportunity she had to strike her enemy down where she stood. But for some reason she could not fathom, she did not even flinch. She stared at Jaina, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She blinked.

That seemed to be enough of an invitation. Jaina focused on the collar, loosening it enough to allow ample room for her hand and cloth. It scraped against the Banshee's skin, but she could feel congealed blood peeling away, and the sensation was so satisfying that she didn't even try to stop the human. If she wanted her dead, she would have acted already. Sylvanas shut her eyes and let Jaina wash her own bloody handprint from around her neck. The intimacy disoriented her. It made her feel something she couldn't quite register, the hint of an emotion that she had long since forgotten. She called it loathing, but knew that the term didn't fit. It gave her peace, though, so she left well enough alone.

Jaina's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Why did you want this war?" So blunt and careless. She couldn’t have just stayed silent, could she? Sylvanas was tempted to brush of the human’s comment with a scoff and leave it at that. However… information could never be gained without an exchange. It was only a game of who gave up the winning piece. War was tactics, and Sylvanas knew war. She would play along. Carefully.

“If I answer that question, will you try to change my mind?”

“That depends on the answer."

Sylvanas recalled answering the same question for Saurfang, and how he had turned his back to the Horde because of his disapproval. Would Jaina react any differently? Unlikely. But she already hated them. What was there to lose? Still, she chose her words deliberately. "War is inevitable, Lord Admiral. I do only what I must to protect my people."

"Is that what you call it? You protect your people by sending them into a battle they did not ask for, risking and even taking their lives just so they can fight and die once more? You make decisions for an entire people without any consideration for their wellbeing. That's not leadership; it's tyranny." Jaina paused to steady her breath, lowering her voice to hardly above a whisper. When she continued, there was regret written on her face. "You're no better than the man that created you."

Sylvanas was stunned, but shook off the shock of the accusation to rebut it. "I created myself," she spat. Red hot rage burned in her abdomen, a fury so deeply rooted in her memory--and intensified by the recent recollection of her dreams--that she could scarcely refrain from shrieking. Unwilling to accept the consequences of such an action, she let the anger seethe instead in her eyes, boiling pools of the blood of those she slaughtered under the Lich King's dominion."I released myself from his control," she finally continued, hatred dripping from every syllable, "I became the leader of a new race on my own, forsaken by the very people I died for. Damn the Lich King, and _damn you_ for comparing me to him."

Jaina, now sitting on her knees beside her with a damp, reddened cloth in her hands, seemed unphased, much to Sylvanas' chagrin. Her impassivity, though, was broken by the welling of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away before they could fall, but the heartache was unmistakable. "Arthas, too, thought war was inevitable." Her tone was hushed. "He sought to protect his people by deciding their fate before the Legion did. He purged an entire city of his own citizens before even considering another option. What was the difference when you blighted your own troops? That day, a seed of destruction was sewn, and it spread and spread until there wasn't a trace of the man he once was. It didn't stop in Northrend. It didn't stop in Lordaron. And it didn't stop in Silvermoon." Jaina's hands were shaking, her voice rising. "You were supposed to be better than Arthas. I had hope that perhaps those souls he enslaved would have a second chance at redemption. You could have led them into peace but instead you strip them of their freedom and bend them to your will. Just. Like. Him." 

"You know neither me nor my intentions. And just because you fucked him doesn't mean you knew the Lich King either."

"I was the only one who did," Jaina all but shouted the words, her eyebrows furrowing less in anger and more in compunction. She was hurt. Badly hurt by what Sylvanas said. Hadn't that been the intention? It didn't feel so satisfying now. "I was the only one who knew him well enough to see the signs and I still couldn't stop him. I had so many chances. To talk to him, to reason with him… to kill him. But by the time I had the sense to act, it was too late." She shifted, dropping the cloth and looking at her hands as if they had the blood of thousands on them. In her eyes, maybe they did. "If I had done something when I had the chance, maybe things would have been different. Maybe millions of lives could have been saved. Maybe you wouldn't have-" She didn't finish the sentence.

Sylvanas was speechless for the first time since she was dragged into this prison cell. She prided herself on knowing her enemies, and yet she hadn’t been aware of this burden Jaina bore. Loathe as she was to admit it, she understood, even pitied the human. “What if’s” were violent reminders of one's failure to prevent tragedy. To think Jaina linked her lack of foresight to the fall of Silvermoon, and everything else for which the Lich King was responsible, was almost touching. She was familiar with regret and blame just as well.

Although not one to address feelings, the lingering memories of her time with the Lich King haunted Sylvanas, and she had never openly discussed such matters, let alone with someone else who had faced his wrath on so personal a level. She ventured to wonder if Jaina hadn't either. Everyone left from Lordaron in that time was dead… or Forsaken. Had the human been utterly alone all these years, unable to explain the torment inflicted by their relationship and all that it entailed?

Sylvanas opened her mouth to say something, but Jaina was already rising from the floor, collecting her coat in her arms. "I'll send someone to collect everything in twenty minutes. See that you finish washing by then." Her voice was flat, emotionless. She avoided Sylvanas' gaze as she stepped towards the door, pausing when her hand reached the lock. Her shoulders sagged and she glanced behind her without making eye contact, then said, "Arthas thought himself righteous. What about you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think and feel free to ask questions (@jainya on tumblr)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this chapter for so looooong. I really hope it lives up to expectations! I have so many feelings about this pairing that I want to get out. I plan to make this a pretty long-form fic, but I'm also open to suggestions and constructive criticism! <3 <3 <3


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